Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta drama. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta drama. Mostrar todas las entradas

lunes, 16 de enero de 2017


   After all the hustle of the day, the sidewalk was finally left alone, although not untouched. Lots of glass fragments were scattered all over the place, as well as paper and some pens. Journalists weren’t really careful with their stuff. Like their cameramen, they just dropped things wherever it was convenient for them. And the sidewalk in front of the Oak Tree Hospital was not a place they would respect in any way. They didn’t care if the patients needed silence to sleep, they’d rather had their story.

 And they did that day. After coming day after day, waiting for him to finally kick the bucket, the seventy-four year old man had finally passed away due to complications with the procedure he had gone through. It had been a very challenging adventure to fight where he knew he was already a loser. His mother and then sister before him had died exactly the same way, around the same age. So it wasn’t very surprising at all. That night, his body was sent to the cremator.

 The next day, he was incinerated and his ashes kept on a small jar to be given to the only person that had been with him through the last few hours, his partner Eddy. They had been together in the industry for years and had formed a bond no one could match, especially not in the modern times when friendships and all sorts of relationships seem to be built on something very fragile, that could break at any moment. It wasn’t their case at all, because even then they felt the same towards each other.

 They had never dared to be more than friends. They did agree on having to work together to fight the competition that plagued acting and all other forms of performance. Sydney, the one you had been cremated, had only been sixteen years old the day he arrived in the big city, looking for a chance to shine. Back then, the industry was only beginning. No major studios existed and the craft of cinema was thought to be a thing that would have only a couple of years in this Earth.

 Sydney, however, had always seen the magic in the movies and was sure it was going to become the largest groups of performers and other artists to be known in the world. He began cleaning around and helping people getting coffee or whatever they needed at the moment. The directors took pity of him and let him attend some rehearsals and even some casting sessions. By the time he was an adult in the eyes of the law, he was a very knowledgeable man, with a great deal of respect for acting. That was what got him inside an acting school soon enough.

 He met Eddy in one of his first productions. Eddy was an assistant of the director and Sydney had land a role as the son of the protagonists. It was a big deal to him because he had never acted before. He was so determined to be good, that he did his best with the little lines he had. It worked in its favor, as many others started hiring him for their pictures. It was mostly for the young brother or son parts, but he knew that was a way to climb to where he really wanted to be.

 With Eddy, they shared their love for industry and their yearning for a time where they could be next to the biggest stars in the business. When there wasn’t any work, they would go out together and watch a movie and then walk around or have something to eat while they discussed said movie. They had fun like that and it was during those long and elaborate conversations when they probably noticed, for the first time, what was happening between them. They didn’t acknowledge it, though.

 Sydney’s first big picture came in when he was twenty-five years old. He was offered the role of a young sailor who falls in love with a mermaid. It was one of those beautiful fantasy setting, with the grand costumes and the elaborate production design. The day filming started was the happiest day ever for him, as he had finally reached he point that he wanted in his career. And although the film was not the serious kind of thing he would like to dedicate himself to, it was a great way to begin.

 It was so well received in the theaters by the general audience that he was signed on to reprise the role for two more movies. The studio proposed to him to raise his salary as well as given him many more accommodations and luxuries in exchange for him staying with them for the saga of movies they had planned. He accepted but with fear of never going back to the more serious movies that he had always longed of doing. Maybe, he thought, he could work something out.

 There was the sequel of the mermaid movie, and then the other movie and then the next one. Suddenly, he had already signed on for five more, for a whole series with the character, and nothing had changed, not even the costumes and monsters he fought. It was Eddy who gave him the push he needed to demand more of the studio and of anyone working near or around him. He needed much more creativity if they wanted them to stay. That was how he put his foot down, in the hopes that could actually grow as an actor, instead of getting stuck forever in the same place.

 After all the money he had won for them, the studio was not that reluctant to let him get closer to the creative process. It was a revolution: he was responsible for the firing of the screenwriting and the hiring of a new team of younger, more vivacious men like him. He worked for long weeks with them in order to create a new great story for his audience to love. Meanwhile, he was also eyeing some roles in other movies, more dramatic ones with potent stories and strong characters.

 He signed on to a couple of those but then he realized he didn’t do as well with the dramatic stuff than with fantasy. Critics said that he was a bit too dry during his performances in the big movies he got to make. They didn’t say he was bad or anything, but what they always said only meant that his skills as an actor didn’t really show much during those grand romantic scenes he had tried so hard to do. It was something difficult to hear but he had to accept it, as it was a fact.

 Sydney kept trying, though. With the help of his best friend Eddy, he would often get the kind of role he had dreamt of doing. But he did, he came short of having the reception that Captain Granger had in the theater. The Granger series were a huge hit among young people and their parents love the movies too because of its depiction of a true hero. The new team of writers had done a marvelous job making the character more realistic and daring. He was who kids wanted to be.

 So he kept on doing those movies. He never stopped. During his career, he filmed maybe more than thirty movies as the character of Captain Granger. He made money and fame; people loved him and appreciated him. But they also questioned his life, as Sydney never married. He argued that the lack of time and the commitment to his craft were the ones to blame for him not having a big family. He did make some relations public, to appease the audiences and their thirst for gossip. But they were all lies.

 All along the road, Eddy was there, helping and cheering him on. He was Sydney biggest fan and his best friend in the world. In their older days, they would still sit down and discuss the movies. When Sydney retired, they did it always, almost as a rite they had to go through everyday. And that was their relationship, one were one depended in the other and vice versa, to push him along the long line of life and resist the blows life launched against either of them. They never discussed their relationship further, and it wasn’t necessary because it had obviously been a great success.

lunes, 7 de septiembre de 2015

Not unique

   It’s amazing how sometimes you can torture yourself with so many stupid little things. I guess we want life to be so controlled, so perfect and calm that anything that poses a challenge or a sudden change makes us nervous. I personally don’t like people who say, “I like challenges” because no human with a proper brain would like to be proven wrong. What people that say that phrase mean is that they are not afraid of confronting themselves, but that doesn’t mean they are going to conquer their fears, it only mean they are going to face them. Fear is something very relative, almost having a world of its own. When you say you’re scared at night in a dark street, it is not the same fear that I experience when looking at a spider, even if it is on a TV screen.

 Anyway, we tend to make everything so big, so scary just to tell ourselves we can overcome it. Problems and dilemmas are now, at least in appearance, more stupid than ever before. I mean, people think it’s a problem to have fat on their bodies or to dress one way to a formal event and not the other way. These are dumb examples but they are the truth. People now have put their challenges at the same height of their apparent skills of when solving problems and facing life. They are so afraid of anything than even putting on a skirt or jeans is a life threatening decision. The idea behind this is that people face smaller problems, challenges, than they would usually do, avoiding the larger ones almost always. But when life comes and surprises them, they turn it into a drama only they can understand.

 Now that’s stupid. We are humans, a species that is quite abundant in the world, so thinking only one of us has experienced something that others haven’t, and it borders madness. We have a really big problem realizing that we are not unique; we are not as special as we have led ourselves to believe. The truth is, and always will be, that we are animals and, as such, our lives and pretty similar, no one really standing out. What makes humans stand out is the society and the rules we have built ourselves. It is not through nature that someone takes power over others or experiences a life of riches and others experience poverty. It is through the human condition, which can always change, at any time.

 Let’s say someone is born into a rich family. We would think that said person has been a very lucky one as money guarantees many things in life that, in any other way, you wouldn’t get. It wasn’t nature that gave that person’s parents’ money, it was the society they live in. And that same society can turn the tables on that family and make them poor, make them starve an d know what it is to have nothing on your stomach for four days in a row. It isn’t nature that took it all away from them, it was Man. In nature we are nothing too special but in society we can be the best or the worst, depending on how we play the game.

 Now, what does this have to do with those things that torture us everyday? Well, society made those too. They made us be aware of things we do not really need to be aware with. Like the economy, some other things are meaningless in a real way. We have created them as humans, and they can be easily replaced at any time. That’s what has happened with the technological revolution, where one device is replaced by the next with the simplest of decisions. And, by the way, those decisions are never taken by only one man or one woman. They are taken by a group, no matter the size, and that’s what changes things. That’s why there are no more beepers and only smartphones, that’s why we want to control every person’s move and thought these days.

 The things that torture us have often much to do with those things we still can control. It’s funny but even if we think we have no control over something, we always do if it has been created by mankind. We cannot cure cancer and we cannot make a storm at will but we can make human things go our way. How do you think some people rob banks or create them? It doesn’t matter which one is it because the trick is that we can do whatever we want with it only because it has been created by us. We can always change things that we have done; it is only what happens beyond humanity that simply cannot touch.

 That said, we have done many great things, we have advanced in our evolution and have even forced a bit forward. That’s the most significant relation on how we have affected nature but we still cannot control that evolution. If we could, we would already have people living in other planets and on the bottom of the ocean. But we haven’t because we are still severely limited by nothing other than ourselves. The only way we can achieve these things it’s by reorganizing the world we have and creating new technology based on us. Because that’s what we have been doing for some time and what we will keep doing for a long while. Of course, not all of us are going to participate because evolution doesn’t need all of us but it does need a group.

 The realization that we are left behind is a great worry among humanity. It is practically the same than knowing you are alone, although you’re not ever really alone. We just feel that way precisely because we have been led to believe we are special, when we are not. It is true that our intelligence and ability to solve problems is quite remarkable but it is quite impossible for it to be unique. If other intelligent life exists in our cosmos, we wouldn’t be special at all and we are not now because it isn’t something of a single specimen but of a whole species. The fact that we are so many, makes us less special.

 But our numbers make us prone to surviving, even if we don’t really have that in us. Because not many people have real survival skills but the fact that we are so many, like ants, makes us difficult to eradicate unless a proper way to destroy us was invented. And it has, by us. There are artificial diseases and weapons that could destroy every single human on the planet and it would only take a few seconds. It would only involve the decision of one person, not even a group, to do that. And the fact that humanity has given power to one above others is simply ridiculous. That proves that we are not as smart as we think we are because we have basically told some people they can annihilate us whenever they want, they have our permission.

 It’s all because we live in a world of fear. We are not really free or will ever be because we tie ourselves down with the same ropes that some groups give us. Self-confidence, fear, angst, sadness… So many more that we use against each other, only to makes us feel a little less us and a bit more unique. What do you think a person who kills her or himself in the gym is looking for? They are not there to improve their health, no matter what anyone says. They are trying to achieve a physical state where they can be above the rest, be a little less them and a little bit someone better. That’s what has made this “physical” revolution a success: we hate ourselves and the fact that we are so, for lack of a better word, normal.

 I’m not saying that people that go to the gym hate themselves but most actually do. And not only them but all of us but every single person that had forced change into their lives because they feel they will never stand out if they keep behaving like the simple and boring organisms that they are. We try so hard to make everyone feel so unique and special, that it is a great pain when we realize that no matter what we do, we will never be really unique. We can put everything on us, we can take things away, but we are always the same people, no matter how many costumes we put on. Our personality is different, from person to person, but it is not unique either, just particular.

 And that should be enough from us. Why singling us out to the world when we know we all have the capacity to do exactly the same things? We can all be singers and actors and engineers because we all have the capacity to be each one of those things and many more. What we decide in life, however, it is matter of the current conditions we live with and our personal convictions and tastes, that are also no special but at least they differ a bit from person to person because, as we all know, we are all made from the same stuff but we are not copies of one another. We are very similar and not identical and that should be enough for us to stop tormenting us by everything and start living for real.

domingo, 17 de mayo de 2015

Había una vez… No, ni mierda.

   Había una vez… No, ni mierda. Porque había una vez? Que es lo que había y porque solo fue una vez? No, eso ya no sirve. No se puede empezar un cuento pretendiendo que alguien crea que algo paso solo una vez, eso de entrada ya es muy sospechoso. Eso sí, se supone que elimina cualquier posibilidad de duda de porqué y como pasó: como nadie estuvo allí, ni siquiera se sabe con exactitud que lugar y cuando es allí, entonces todos liberados de resolver una duda que, seamos realistas, la mayoría de la gente no se hace. Y si lo dudaran, los culparíamos de hilar muy fino. Aunque eso no es malo y quiere decir que alguien esta poniendo cuidado.

 No, después resolveremos como empezar. De pronto lo mejor sea imaginar lo que pasa en cada parte de la historia. Se supone que un cuento, así como una novela o una película, está dividido en tres partes: comienzo, nudo y desenlace. Pero a mi eso no me gusta. La vida no tiene desenlaces definitivos, salvo la muerte y a mi no me gusta matar a mis personajes. Es cruel y creo que no sé matarlos bien. Nadie creería que están muertos. Si fuese yo un asesino sería el más torpe de todos porque no puedo hacer creíble ni siquiera un disparo a la cabeza, y eso es mucho decir.

 Eso sí, estamos de acuerdo, que tiene que pasar algo. Pero que? Que puede ser interesante, llamativo, incluso especial? No, original no busco y no lo busco porque simplemente eso no existe. Pobres aquellos que se creen tan únicos e irrepetibles que creen que tienen la capacidad de crear algo cien por ciento original. Eso ya no existe. Solo somos seres humanos y lamentablemente no somos infinitos, no somos como el universo que sigue creciendo y creciendo y parece que no para nunca. De pronto algo con el espacio? Parece que todos los sueños y posibilidades pueden reproducirse ahí…

 Ah bueno, y falta por definir que tipo de historia contar. Algo muy romántico no es mi estilo, demasiados besos y abrazos no es lo mío. De pronto es porque en mi vida no he sabido mucho de eso entonces mis romances escritos terminan siendo tan acartonados que incluso el ser vivo más seco del mundo se da cuenta de que eso de real no tiene nada. Y no es que no me intrigue el amor y todo lo que despierta, y también lo que ignora y duerme a la fuerza. No sé, no esta vez, de pronto en otra ocasión haré algo sobre un tórrido romance.

 Esa es otra! El sexo escrito. Creo que ese sí lo se hacer muy bien (escribirlo… aunque porque no, hacerlo también) pero a veces puede uno pasarse de todo y llegar a ser casi pornográfico. Los detalles son muy fáciles de dar y cualquier trazo de romance se puede perder entre tantos detallitos que van y vienen y que pueden hacer emocionar a más de un lector. Cosa que, de hecho, es lo que como escritores debemos lograr. Aquellos que escriben pornografía lo saben muy bien pero es que ellos buscan una reacción sencilla y muy básica. Nosotros, es decir los escritores independientes, buscamos algo más fuerte, que cale más hondo en los sentimientos y pensamientos del lector.

 El típico drama. Eso es lo que haré. A todo el mundo le gusta una historia que puede llegar a salir muy mal o muy bien y, si la plantea uno de la mejor manera, se engancha al lector para que nos siga y quiera descubrir si termina todo mal o bien, dependiendo de la visión personal que uno tenga de esas dos caras de la vida. Es sobre todo interesante, al menos para mí, plantear problema que puedan parecer cotidianos y solo cambiarles el contexto y darles vida, con una buena interacción entre personajes o amoldando la vida del personaje principal tan bien que los lectores no tengan dudas en interesarse por ese ser inexistente (al menos en el mundo físico).

 Ya tengo una idea y eso es definitivamente lo más importante. Además, que sería de este mundo sin ideas, sin imaginación? Ciertamente sería un mundo difícil en el cual vivir, estéril y solitario. Me da lástima cuando me doy cuenta que la mayoría de personas en el mundo actual no tienen ni una pizca de imaginación comparados apenas con personas de hace veinte años. La juventud, sobre todo, está jodida. Hoy en día no tienen ideas y cuando las tienen resultan ser la repetición de la repetidera: personajes tan plásticos e irreales que incluso resultado desagradable cualquier interacción con ello.

 Eso sí, todavía hay imaginación y pareciera que unos pocos la acaparan pero supongo que eso es porque la mayoría de la gente hoy en día tiene otras “preocupaciones”. Con esto me refiero a que están ocupados trabajando para vivir y viviendo para trabajar pero nunca nada más viviendo. Además, creen que lograr algo en la vida es comprar algo de cierta marca, o cierto objeto que los suba de nivel socialmente para fingir que son algo que nunca van a ser, alguien que jamás ha estado allí dentro de sus cuerpos, alguien que solo actúa como un títere pero está igual de vacío por dentro, sin ideas ni nada.

 Porque yo, lo admito, no creo que la gente cambie en nada, nunca. Muchos dicen que las enfermedades terminales o los acontecimientos traumáticos cambian a la gente de la noche a la mañana pero yo no me creo eso. Ni el cáncer ni un secuestro cambian a nadie sino que lo sacuden y reordenan las prioridades que la persona ya tenía. No es que hayan nuevas prioridades. Los seres humanos somos muy tercos y todavía muy obstinados en tonterías para aceptar cosas nuevas o el cambio. Por eso hay ese eterno enfrentamiento entre jóvenes y adultos. Es difícil aceptar que el mundo cambia pero ellos los ven, no es que se nieguen a eso. En todo caso la gente no cambia, no evoluciona mágicamente. Mejoran todo lo que pueden mejorar.

 En todo caso, volvamos a lo nuestro. Tengo la idea de una historia, ya veré como empezarla y ahora necesito personajes reales o al menos que lo parezcan. Lo mejor es hacerlos con algún rasgo marcado y no tan simples como a veces nos gustaría. Además, tienen que ser fieles a sus contrapartes humanos y en sentido tener gustos y problemas, porque no existe un ser humano sin esas dos cosas. Los problemas y como los resolvemos o como fracasamos en resolverlos no hacer ser quienes somos. Es gracias a ello que terminamos siendo de cierta manera y un personaje los necesita solo para ser creíble, real.

 No, no hay que hacer listas interminables de descripción de personajes ni hay que plantearse TODA la historia antes de empezar. Esas son estupideces, son seguros idiotas que solo toman los que tienen demasiado miedo de empezar a pulsar teclas o calentar un lápiz o un bolígrafo. No, hay que dejar que todo fluya y creo que es mejor hacerlo así desde el comienzo. Hay que admitir que muchas cosas apestarán, serán terribles para el lector pero la verdad es que al comienzo el lector no importa. Al comienzo lo que importa es entrenar y lo que se entrena escribiendo es el cerebro y capacidad de imaginar grandes historias.

 Ya después se va desarrollando la técnica que puede ser única para cada persona. Al fin y al cabo, no hay una sola manera de hacer nada. Siempre hay al menos dos y si es un trabajo creativo hay tantas maneras como personas en el mundo, y esa es la belleza que tiene todo trabajo basado en la imaginación, que crea obras, pequeñas o grandes, buenas o malas, que son todas únicas e irrepetibles pero esta vez en el mejor sentido de la palabra. Porque no importa si falla uno en el cometido o si la historia no llama la atención como quisiéramos. Es aprender a montar bicicleta y eso no se comienza en la carretera con una de carreras.

 De pronto es que yo soy muy relajado, aunque me preocupo y mucho, pero creo que entre más se empuje algo, es más factible que el suelo debajo se venga abajo y uno con todo lo demás. Hay que ser paciente, muy paciente a veces y tratar de hacer comprender a quienes estén alrededor porque el apoyo si es algo muy necesario, que todos debemos recibir para sentirnos completos y con el impulso necesario para seguir adelante, sin importar lo que diga nadie.

 Porque hay que recordar, y esto aplica para todo, que el mundo está lleno de idiotas. La gente se lanza a la piscina de la ignorancia y le fascina. Porqué? Simplemente es más simple. Una persona ignorante no se pregunta nada y tampoco duda de nada. La duda es de hecho la madre de la imaginación y por eso es tan importante detenerse a pensar en lo que pasa alrededor, porqué pasa y si podría pasar de otra manera y que ocurriría si así fuera. Así se crean las historias, los cuentos que tanto amamos leer y escribir y sentir por el cuerpo. Y necesitamos a esos idiotas y ayudarlos, porque para eso es el arte.

 Yo seguiré escribiendo este cuento porque me acabo de dar cuenta que tengo otra idea, una que siento más cercana y que francamente creo que es mucho mejor. Se trata de un relato mezclado con un discurso, algo diferente para decir lo que pienso sobre lo único que en el mundo que me llena el alma por completo. Y ese relato, si es que alguien lo lee, es este. Y aunque dije que el lector en principio no es importante, es obvio que después es uno de los ejes de la escritura. Y por eso gracias si está leyendo esto y nos vemos mañana, espero.

sábado, 27 de septiembre de 2014

Mount Athos

My name is John Tiberius Johnson. I was born in Exeter (England) and from a young age, I've loved to explore: I had a tree house built by my own hands, I had small canoe in which I explore calm rivers and their banks and I always had the company of Akakios, my labrador.

Thanks to my parents and my persistence, I went on to study anthropology and archaeology. I love ancient civilizations as well as contemporary ones, just watching how people have had different solutions for the same problem and even the same solutions, being separated by thousands of kilometers.

Working for the British Museum, a dream of mine that was fulfilled by a "enlightened" thesis on the customs of the North American peoples, I got to travel a lot, all around the globe.
I saw the Great Wall of China, the pyramids in Egypt, the massive forests of Indonesia, the majestic Machu Picchu and so many more.

But this time I want to tell you about a small part of the world. Many, won't even know it exists. It is called Mount Athos.

Resting on one of the "fingers" of the Chakidiki peninsula, Mount Athos is a strange place. First of all, it's an autonomous region from the rest of Greece. They have a different way of doing things there.

Second, the place is filled with monasteries, all around the peninsula. Beautiful forests unite the sites.

Third, one must get a special permit to enter Mount Athos. It is called a diamonētērion. And, most curious, only men are allowed there.

Preparing for my journey, I travelled to Thessaloniki and applied for my permit, which would allow me to stay and the Megisti Lavra monastery for as a week.

I decided to walk all around the city, waiting for the permit. On one of those outings, around an open market, a strange gypsy woman almost threw herself and me and asked to read my hand. I refused but she insisted and I was bored so I complied. After paying her 5 euros, she grabbed my hand and told me I should avoid facing God soon, as death was near.

A bit annoyed, I went on with my walking. Coincidence or not, a old man looked at me with crazy eyes and spoke fast and loud in greek. Being rusty in the language I could only understand two words: "avoid" and "danger".

Looking to forget all about these weird encounters I went to my hotel and had a nice calm dinner.

After a week of my request, they called me to say the permit had been approved. So I went to pick up the strange sheet. There, I was told to travel to Ierissos, where I would board a ferry to Mount Athos.

I have to say the boat ride was even better than I imagined: the view was not to be missed. Mount Athos, the actual mountain, looked massive but calm and peaceful from the boat. I was traveling with two others: Alex, a photographer for National Geographic and Cedric, a french travel journalist.

When we got to the dock, a small wooden structure on a rocky beach, we were received by a lonely young monk who told us to follow him. It was short walk to Megisti Lavra, as the place rests just above a cliff overlooking the Aegean Sea.

We were shown our bedrooms and the bathroom we would share and told us we could only remain on the monastery or inside its boundaries. Alex then intervened, saying he had been authorized to go hiking, in order to take pictures from the mount. The young monk asked him for his permit, read it for himself in whole and then gave it back. He bowed and then left them in their rooms.

Day one, I went to the main temple and asked to see the manuscripts. They were held in a small library, feeling a bit uneasy as a monk was asked to guard my stay in the room.
I was baffled by the writings, and then by codices. They were a treasure I had wanted to see for long. I took notes for work as well as some photographies, although my guard didn't seem to like that.

Then, a scream. A truly awful, heartbreaking scream. I carefully put away the codex that I was making notes about and went out the main courtyard with my guard. He then indicated me to go to the monasteries main entrance. The place was beautiful, adorned with olive trees and small hedges.

Then, we saw: Alex was running towards the gate. The monks let him in and he fainted in front of me.
Hours later he woke up and told us he had seeing a body laying in the road to the mountain. A group of monks left to check it out. When they left he told me that the man he saw did not have a face, crushed by rocks or something. He was trembling so I accompanied him until Cedric came back from the a stroll down the shore.

Then the leader of the congregation came and asked us to remain in our chambers for the day as something had occurred. Then Alex asked for the body and the man told us that it appeared to be an assassination. They had even found a big rock tainted with blood.

During the next few days, I had to accompany Alex, with two monk guards, to take his pictures. We ascended part of Mount Athos and, although astonished by the beauty of the place, my mind was still wondering about the killing.

So it was a surprise when we came back to the monastery and they told us we were going to stay under lock and something had, once again, occurred. 

They had arranged a large room with three beds for all of us and the leader of the monks came again. It had happened they had found another body, this time on the water, just floating by the monastery. They had voted to enclose us for our safety and because we were considered suspects.

 - We were on the Mount!
 - Mr. Cedric wasn't...
 - I was walking with one of your guards!

But then the monk pulled out something from his pocket. Kept in a white cloth, he showed us an object and I recognized the knife immediately: it had been a gift by the director of a museum I had been to in China. A dagger made in times of the Tang dinasty. The only difference was that this dagger was tainted in blood.

And blood was the thing that drained out from my face, as I realized I was trapped here, no way to get out.